


6th Arrondissement

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad French, Consensual Infidelity, M/M, POV Second Person, Porn with some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right there is where you want him. On the bathroom sink, still damp from the shower, hair dripping with water, body so slick you could slide right over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	6th Arrondissement

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude goes out to ColorfulStabwound for inspiration and to Google Translate for helping me fake my way through French dialogue.
> 
> This somehow fits in The Death of Draco Malfoy series by ColorfulStabwound.
> 
> For Draco, who wears Dior and makes Theodore weak in the knees when he speaks French.

Right there is where you want him. On the bathroom sink, still damp from the shower, hair dripping with water, body so slick you could slide right over him.

 

You watch him through the open door and he acts like you’re not there – like you haven’t blindly taken the Portkey he’d sent you and haven’t just arrived at a shabby flat in Paris, like you haven’t followed the hissing sound of water rushing through a faucet to find him in the bathroom wearing nothing but the tiniest pair of underthings you’ve ever seen on him, like the sight of him in said underpants hasn’t left little to the imagination and hasn’t made you instantly hard.

 

You only know you’re in Paris because you’ve been to this flat before.  It’s been a while. You didn’t even know Draco still owned it.  But you’re glad he kept it, just like you’re glad he kept you.  And similar to you, it’s not very glamorous, but it has its gritty charm.

 

Maybe he hadn’t heard the little pop that had heralded your arrival.  Or maybe he just wants you to believe you’re getting a rare glimpse of him – without anything to hide and without anyone to show off for.  This is Draco at his most stripped-down, figuratively of course, because you’ve seen him wearing less many times.  He’s not trying to be smug or unaffected.  He’s just brushing his teeth.  And you marvel at how he somehow manages to do even that gracefully.

 

He finishes and wipes the steam off the mirror with a wet hand.  And that’s when he acknowledges you.  His eyes meet your distant reflection.  Because he doesn’t flinch, you think he must have known you were there all along. He is so attune to your presence that he likely sensed you there.  Surely he must have felt the weight of your heavy stare.

 

He rests his hands on the small pedestal sink and addresses you in the mirror.  “ _Aimez-vous ce que vous voyez_?” he asks – _Do you like what you see?_ The way French drips so naturally off his tongue makes you want to pull more words from his beautiful mouth, either by force or by coercion.  You’re more in the mood for the latter, though neither of you would object to the former.

 

Of course you like what you see. French was the first foreign language you learned, but it still doesn’t come easily to you, and when you answer, _bien sûr,_ you know your lips don’t form the words as pleasantly as he can. 

 

You don’t approach right away. Even though you’re so anxious to close the distance between you that you can sense the adrenaline tingling upon your tongue.  You’re already violating him with your eyes and you can’t fucking wait to get your hands on him.  It’s a standoff. You both want to make a move – shit, it’s what you’re here for.  But it’s always a game with you two and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

You up the ante because this staring contest is extremely skewed towards one person right now.  A quietly muttered wandless spell loosens the laces of your Chuck Taylors enough for you to step out of them.  You don’t break your gaze when you cast off your socks and make quick work of the closures of your trousers.  It is times like these that make you wish you hadn’t such a penchant for wearing tight jeans. But you don’t let them slow you down and forego making a ridiculous spectacle of yourself in favor of pulling off your t-shirt instead.

 

Now he’s watching you.  Not that he hadn’t been watching you like a goddamn hawk before. But now he’s _really_ watching you.  And so you keep those skinny jeans hanging low on your lithe frame, letting your hip bones and the nest of soft, dark curls peek out above the black denim – because you never wear underpants on nights like this, when cuddling quietly in his rooms at Malfoy Manor just won’t do and he sends an owl with a three-word note.

 

_Need you now._

You can see it in his eyes, even though his smudgy reflection in the tarnished mirror doesn’t really do that sultry stare justice.  He needs it badly. You wonder how long you can make him wait before he gets frustrated and yanks down your jeans. He heaves a deep, long breath through an upturned nose.  It’s the only indication that he’s impatient.  Because you love to push his buttons, you reach into your back pocket for a cigarette, light it, and slowly pad across the creaky floor to the bathroom doorway, where you lean on the frame and blow a plume of smoke above your head.

 

“I haven’t got all night, Malfoy,” you tease. Really, you’ve got a lifetime reserved just for him.

 

He turns his attention away from you to concentrate on his own reflection.  “I’ll be ready in a minute,” he says with the tiniest hint of a smirk.

 

He lazily brushes his fingers through his hair, as if it isn’t already perfect.  It shouldn’t affect you so much.  But you inwardly wish it were your fingers raking through the wet strands that have darkened to the color of straw.  You want to tug on it and pull his head back to kiss him.  Instead you feed your oral fixation with another drag off your cigarette.  It does nothing to quell the need burgeoning inside you.

 

“Be a doll, Theo, and hand me that tin over there,” he says.  The bastard always cheats.

 

You pluck the metal tin of hair product from the glass shelf on the wall opposite the mirror.  You mean to just reach out to give it to him, but you’re drawn towards him, pulled by his primal magnetism.  You step close behind him and slip the tin into his hand.  And as he superfluously busies himself with his hair, you apply soft, little kisses to his shoulder. 

 

“Why are you even bothering with your hair? Don’t you know I’m only going to ruin it?” His skin is dewy when you mutter against it and you want to just lick the stray droplets of water that streak down his body. 

 

He makes a small, amused sound through closed lips.

 

You breathe him in, letting his scent replace the smoke in your lungs.  He smells of clean and of expensive aftershave, and you muse to yourself that the things you want to do to him will make him dirty and cheap. That rather appeals to you, as it always has – you love to make this refined gentleman unravel with your wet mouth, with your greedy fingers, with your firm cock.

 

You gently nip at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder because you can’t help yourself.  He tastes like summer rain.  When he turns his head slightly, his face is close enough to kiss, but he plucks your cigarette from between your fingers while you’re distracted by the taste and scent of him.  He takes a drag and his eyelids are heavy when he exhales the smoke through his lips.

 

“ _Allez-vous rester la toute la nuit ou allez-vous me baiser_?”  He drawls the words like a Parisian rent boy and you should be amused enough to laugh, but your bones turn liquid.

 

You’re too dizzy with desire to find the words in French when you answer, “I’m going to do both.  I’m going to stand here all night _and_ I’m going to fuck you.”

 

And so you take him firmly by the hips where he stands and you kiss him, hard and unhurried.  You both taste of mint and cigarettes and desperation.  Maybe he’s straining his neck to kiss you while you’re behind him, or maybe those little pained sounds he’s making are an indication of just how badly he needs you.  You don’t know why he needs you so desperately.  You won’t ask Draco why he urgently required you for an unplanned rendezvous in the middle of the week.

 

Despite what it looks like on the outside, you know that he’s not just using you as an escape from the pressures of adulthood that you will never experience yourself.  When his wife is getting on his last nerve or when his son is driving him up the wall, you will gladly be there for him.  You will be his best friend, his lover, and his refuge.

 

Because you know that he loves you, and that his need for you to love him greatly surpasses his need for you to fuck him, you will always oblige.  You might tease him and string him along, but in the end, you’ll always give Draco what he wants. After all, you need him too. You need to connect with him like this to strengthen your bond, to reassure your place in his life and in his heart. You need to reinforce all the ways that your lives are stitched together, and that means walking hand-in-hand through London on lazy Sundays as much as it means locking yourselves in a Parisian apartment to fuck until the sun comes up.

 

So maybe it feels a little bit like what the muggles term a _booty call_. And that’s essentially what this is. But you don’t care. You get to spend the night with Draco without feeling like you’re intruding upon his home.  And unlike at your flat, he can leave his traces all over the place without you having to endure them like lingering ghosts when he’s gone in the morning.

 

You intend to leave your traces all over Draco’s rarely used Parisian flat, just like you intend to leave your traces all over him. Your teeth mark the side of his neck where your kisses become viciously loving.  Your possessive fingers blanch the skin where you hold him tightly.

 

You glance at his expression in the mirror and he’s blithely smoking your cigarette.  The prat is still playing the game that you thought you’d already forfeit. You glare at his reflection.

 

“ _Je ne suis pas pressé_ ,” he says with a lofty shrug.

 

“Of course you wouldn’t be in a rush when you get paid by the hour,” you tease him and add, “ _Sale pute_ ,” as endearingly as one can call another a _dirty whore_.

 

“ _Je le vaux bien,_ ” he says with an ethereal exhalation of smoke. 

 

You rather like the idea of him playing the part of the French whore, as long as you get to be his only client.

 

You raise a brow at him.  “I don’t know, are you _really_ worth it?  So far you’ve done absolutely nothing to prove it.”  It’s a lie. You’d pay with your life just to glimpse his unguarded self again, just to kiss him or hold him just once.

 

And in a way, you really have paid with your life to be here with him.  You’ve been living on the outskirts of Draco’s life for so long, hoping he’ll make you a priority, wishing he’d make you his in the eyes of his family and the Ministry and the whole goddamn world.  You know there’s never been a guarantee, still you wait by his side because you know you have his heart.  And you live for moments like this, when you disappear into an isolated world that you’ve created out of fantasy and delusion – a world where Draco’s love has no limits.

 

He turns around fully and your eyes meet like a collision of stars in a birthing galaxy, with palpable affinity. He returns your cigarette and says, “ _Ce sera un supplément de cinquante si vous venez dans ma bouche_.”

 

Draco talking dirty in English makes you shiver. Draco talking dirty in French makes you want to surrender everything to him in one trembling, breathy sigh. At the back of your mind, you think he could command a staggering price as a high class, Parisian escort.

 

“I don’t intend to come in your mouth, sweetheart,” you admit in a low, menacing voice as you smirk darkly. “I intend to come some place else entirely.”  You press the cigarette to your devious grin and pull the smoke into your lungs.

 

When he smiles wickedly at you, you’re a pair of the most deviant pretty little devils in Saint-Germain-des-Prés and likely all of the 6th Arrondissement. You watch him slowly sink to his knees on the bathroom floor and you think you’ve just witnessed an angel descending to Hell.

 

You smoke what’s left of your cigarette down to the filter as you watch him ply your cock with slow, wet kisses. When he lifts his gaze to meet yours, they’re the color of ominous clouds and his pale blond lashes are like a sliver of sunshine behind a storm.  He makes you feel like you’re the only one he’s ever loved and it makes your heart ache. 

 

You’re aware that you are the only person he’s ever done this to, and it makes you impossibly harder knowing that he is sucking your dick with the prowess of a whore only because you’ve been wordlessly teaching him how to do it for years.  Everything he does with his lips and with his tongue have only ever been for you, and you alone. 

 

His eyelids flutter closed when he takes you down his throat.  You discard the remnant of your cigarette in the toilet and tightly close your fingers upon his damp hair. You faintly notice there’s mildew in the grout between the tiles of the wall. Draco is kneeling in scattered ashes. The bulb above the sink is loose and flickers every time the inhabitants of the flat above you walk across their floor. You and Draco are creating a grimy, dirty tableau befitting of Rimbaud and Baudelaire.  And you fucking love it.

 

Moments later, you’re screwing your eyes shut and clutching the rim of the sink for dear life, fighting the urge to spill into his mouth – you won’t let Draco win this one.  Just when you think you can’t hold on any longer, he pulls off your cock with a wet sound and stands up.  Somehow, you’re more breathless than he is.  He kisses you fiercely and you taste yourself on his mouth – another trace you leave on him.

 

He hooks a hand behind your neck and rests his forehead upon yours as you both pant softly, hanging on the edge of the moment until you fall into the next.  He whispers hotly, “ _Baise-moi._ ”

 

“ _En Anglais s'il vous plait_.” You ask him to say it in English even though you know precisely what he means.  You just love the sound of the word, and he knows it.

 

“Fuck me,” he commands with the quiet authority of his desire, “Now.”

 

Even though you’re more than ready to give Draco what he wants, you know he can’t be ready yet.  You’ve yet to even really touch him.  “Now?” you ask breathily.

 

“ _Oui. Baise-moi maintenant,_ ” he orders you sibilantly between feather-light kisses upon your parted lips.

 

Now that you’ve heard it in both English and French, you can’t refuse.  Your jeans finally come off with a bit of effort while Draco’s underpants come off with none at all.  He turns to face the mirror and braces himself with his hands on the sink. 

 

He glances back over his shoulder with a smirk and teases you using your own words.  “You haven’t got all night, Nott.”

 

Because he has this uncanny ability to provoke the worst in you, you give him your cock with only the lubrication left by his previous services.  But you find that he’s more slick and pliant than expected.  Your smirk grows wide as you sink easily into him, realizing that the sneaky little devil prepared himself before you got there.  The mental image that this realization conjures is almost enough to make you come.

 

You both sigh as one connected unit once you’re buried inside him to the hilt.  You never want this feeling to end because you’ll never be closer to Draco than you are right now.  So you linger like this, with your hands gripping his hipbones, with your brows furrowed between closed eyes and your bottom lip caught between your teeth, and with your head tilted back in ecstasy.

 

His voice is raw and honest when he says, “I won’t break.  I promise. Please, Theo.” You’ve heard this before, and every time you hear it, you know it’s a lie.  But you do it anyway because you both need to fall apart and disintegrate into one another.

 

When you pull back and collide with him, you’re not gentle, but you’re not brutal either.  It’s a delicate balance.  Sometimes Draco needs to be fucked hard.   And sometimes he needs you to make love to him sweetly.  You’re never quite sure which way to go at first, so your initial movements are always tentative and exploratory.

 

You open your eyes to find slate grey ones staring at you in the mirror.  And that’s when you know exactly what Draco needs.  His gaze is despondent and longing.  Even though you’re having dirty, hot sex in a steamy bathroom, you understand that Draco needs you to love him.  He needs it so desperately that you can see the pain in his eyes.

 

You lean forward to paste your body to Draco’s and rest your hands on the sink next to his.  You slide back and sink deep with slow, careful motions.  You nuzzle the side of his face and he returns the gesture lovingly. 

 

“Oh gods…”  The quiet, rapturous moan that escapes him when you hazard to thrust with more intention threatens to make your legs give out beneath you.

 

And so the next moment finds you on the bed, rather than face the very real possibility of falling on the bathroom floor. When he looks up at you adoringly, you know it was the right decision to relocate, for you’re falling so hard and deep into those eyes.  He reaches up to touch your face, as if he’s seeing you for the first time in years and he manages to make you blush and smile.

 

He bites his bottom lip and creases his brow, immediately erasing your expression of joy in favor of a look of concern. He looks like you really have broken him and you wonder what you did to shatter him so suddenly.

 

“What’s the matter?” you whisper as you cover his hand upon your cheek.

 

“I…,” he begins and then turns his head to the side to look away, “I can’t keep doing this,” he mumbles.

 

And now you’re breaking – shattering into a million pieces like the flakes of ash from one of your cigarettes. “What do you mean?”

 

He looks at you again with so much sadness that it’s like a knife in your chest – You don’t know what you’ve done to hurt him so much, but it kills you that you’re inadvertently doing it.

 

“I’m married, Theo,” he says, like it’s just dawned on him after he’s been cheating on his wife for most of their marriage.

 

You can’t help but be a little bitter now. “It’s never stopped you before,” you mutter.

 

“I can’t do it anymore.  I can’t stand another day chained to that woman when it’s you that I want,” he admits. 

 

You heave a long, deep sigh of relief. You should’ve known he’d always choose you.  You take his hand and press it to your lips.  You close your eyes and kiss his knuckles, and you can feel the cold metal band upon your mouth. When you open your eyes, you know what has to be done.  You carefully pry the wedding ring off his finger.  “Then don’t do it anymore.”  You’re resolute and unsmiling.  You’re doing what you should’ve done long ago.

 

You’re fighting for him.

 

You slam the platinum band upon the bedside table and repeat the words as if it should be obvious to Draco.  “Don’t do it anymore.” 

 

You cover him with your body – you’ve been inside him during this entire exchange, and so you remind him what you came here to do, what he summoned you here to do.  You deliver a single, forceful thrust that pulls a delicious gasp from Draco’s lips and you feel his breath against your mouth.  “You belong with me.”  Another thrust, and his breath hitches.  “You should be mine.”  Even harder this time.

 

“I’ve always been yours,” he says huskily as he arches his back and digs his fingers into your shoulder.

 

As you make love to him, you know that it’s true. And by the time you’re making each other come in a sweaty frenzy, he silently promises you Forever with the insistence of his kiss. 

 

 

It’s nearly two in the morning and you’ve both come twice when you share a pillow and stare at each other lazily in the soft light filtering through the soot-stained window.   He’s brushing the damp fringe of your hair and tracing the shape of your face with the back of his fingers.

 

“I should sell this place.  It’s a dump,” he declares sleepily without much conviction.

 

“Then where will be go?” you ask. It’s a loaded question, but you don’t mean it to be.

 

“We’ll buy a better place,” he says with a reassuring smile.  “In the 16th arrondissement or something.”

 

He lost you at the first word. “We?” you ask for clarification.

 

“We,” he reiterates with a kiss before curling up against you and falling asleep.

 

Just like the first night you shared a bed with Draco when you were fourteen, you don’t sleep that night.  You watch over him as he sleeps contentedly in your arms. You don’t know it yet, but tonight is the first night he will sleep without the burden of nightmares for many weeks to come.  It’s because freedom is finally within his reach.  And he knows he wants to enjoy that freedom with you for the rest of his life.

 


End file.
